Someday, Someday, Maybe (40 page)

And with that, we arrived at the day I called him—just last week—when I stammered and struggled to get out even the most basic information—my name and why I was calling.

“Franny BANKS. My favorite KLUTZ,” he’d bellowed cheerfully into the phone that day, and then asked if I’d like to come by on Friday around four.

S
o here we are, Friday a little after four, and I’m comfortably sunken into the ancient chair, wondering, but afraid to ask yet, if Barney Sparks still might want to be my agent.

“My episode of
Kevin and Kathy
is supposed to air next week,” I tell him, trying not to sound too naively optimistic. “Could that be a—do you think that could mean anything, or uh, do anything for me?”

Barney tips precariously back in his chair, the hinges creaking in protest. “GOOD NEWS,” he yells to the ceiling. “It’s the first episode back on the air and there’ll be lots of press. BAD NEWS—the show is in its ninth year and has lost some juice—but HEY, you never know.”

“It’s just that, well, I set a sort of deadline for myself, and it just passed actually, and I swore I wouldn’t be one of those people who stays too long, and I’m wondering if I’m fooling myself into thinking that I’m—”

I stop, unable to even say the words.

“GOOD enough?” Barney barks the words in a matter-of-fact tone, as if I’ve just said the most obvious thing in the world.

“Well, yes.”

“My dear,” he sighs, leaning forward on his desk and clasping his hands. “My father, the great theater director Irving Sparks, often asked his actors: ‘How do you get to Carnegie Hall?’ ”

I stare at him, not sure if he’s joking. “Um. Hold on. Are you telling me that ‘practice, practice, practice’ was
your father’s saying
?”

“Well, he never got the CREDIT for it, but do you think Jack Benny came up with that line himself? HA! A talented comic, yes, but a wordsmith like my father he was NOT.”

“Wow.”

“YES. And it seems to me perhaps you’ve not yet had enough practice. That comes with time. And AGE.”

Barney seems positively cheerful about my age, as if approaching twenty-seven years old isn’t a time to panic. He’s talking to me as though I’m young. Doesn’t he know Diane Keaton was twenty-four when she understudied the lead in
Hair
on Broadway, and Meryl Streep won an Academy Award before she turned thirty? But for some reason, he doesn’t seem to think I’m behind at all.

“But even with all the auditions I’ve had, and being in acting class—I just can’t shake the feeling that there’s something I’m doing wrong, or something I’m not doing right—either way, there’s a trick I haven’t learned, a secret that other people know but I don’t. It’s like these nightmares I get sometimes: I’m onstage and I don’t know what play I’m doing, or there’s a song or a speech I’m supposed to perform but I open my mouth and nothing comes out. And I’m not sure if I have that feeling because I don’t have enough experience, or practice, like you said, or if it’s that I don’t know the secret … the secret language …”

I’ve lost the point I was trying to make and I’m out of breath, as if I’ve just climbed Barney’s four flights of stairs a second time.

I look up from the threadbare spot on the worn Persian carpet where my gaze has been fixed, to see that Barney’s hands are folded neatly on his desk, and his blue eyes are bright and focused, as if he’s very interested in what I’ve been saying and has all the time in the world in case I’d like to continue. He raises his eyebrows and smiles encouragingly, but I realize that, for once, I’ve actually said everything I can think of—at least for now.

“My dear,” he says, taking a shallow breath that sounds like two pieces of sandpaper being rubbed together. “It’s sad but TRUE. Even IF you’re talented, this business is NOT for everyone. Think of dear Marilyn. She was just TOO sensitive.”

“Like me?”

Barney frowns for a moment as if I’ve confused him. But then his frown lifts a little and his eyes light up, and his shoulders start to shake up and down. He allows a thin whistle-like wheezing sound to escape from his chest, signaling that either his respiratory system has shut down completely or he’s laughing—I can’t tell which. For a precarious moment, I’m truly unsure whether I should smile at him or call for emergency help.

“On the contrary. You may be sensitive INSIDE, but what I see on the outside is a SOLDIER. You fell down on that stage that night and stood right back UP, better and more focused than before. You didn’t CRY, or forget your place, or ask to start again. ALL of which I HAVE seen. You think there’s a trick, something the successful people out there know that you don’t know. I understand the feeling, but I’m here to tell you there is NOT.”

Barney stretches his hands over his head, which causes his office chair to lurch back so far that I’m certain he’s going to flip backward and land on his head. But it stops at an impossible angle, almost parallel to the floor, and he somehow avoids tipping over.

“My DEAR. Did I ever tell you what my father, the great Broadway director Irving Sparks, always said?”

“Well, uh, yes, you
have
mentioned a few …”

“To his actors, I mean. Before each run-through? The best advice for actors I can think of.”

I try my best to lean forward from the sunken seat of my chair. My throat feels dry. My heart is beating fast. I don’t want to miss a word.

Barney looks into the distance with a dreamy expression from his almost prone position, and then turns to me and speaks so softly I have to strain even farther forward to hear him.

“He said: ‘Remember, kids. Faster, funnier, louder.’ ”

I’m trying my best to stay forward but the chair finally wins and sucks me back into its depths, the cushions deflating with a sigh. I’m sucked backward but I’m still gripping the arms of the chair tightly, waiting for him to continue, but he’s turned his face away now and seems lost in a happy memory.

“Wait, I’m sorry. That’s it? That’s the best advice he ever gave?”

He returns his chair with a lurch to its regular upright position and wheels himself back to his desk, clasping his hands again and returning his light blue gaze to me. “Yes, dear. That’s the advice. Why? You’ve heard that before?”

“Well, yes. I mean, of course. It’s a famous expression.
Everyone’s
heard that.”

“Have they, dear?” he says, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “How wonderful!”

“But, I guess,” I begin, fumbling for the word. “I guess I always thought it was sort of a, a joke?”

Barney looks confused.

“I mean, not a joke exactly, but, well, it makes it all sound so simple, I guess.
Too
simple.”

He gives me a long look, then draws in a breath so deep it whistles. “FASTER—don’t talk down to the audience, take us for a spin, don’t spell everything out for us, we’re as smart as you—assume we can keep up; FUNNIER—entertain us, help us see how ridiculous and beautiful life can be, give us a reason to feel better about our flaws; LOUDER—deliver the story in the appropriate size, DON’T be indulgent or keep it to yourself, be generous—you’re there to reach US.” Barney takes a few gulps of air and beats his fist just once on his chest. “There you go, my dear. It might SOUND simple, but if I know you, you’ll spend your life dedicated to getting it right. And that’s it, my dear. THAT’S the whole banana.”

31
 

You have nine messages
.

BEEEP

Yes, hello, this call is for Frances Bakes? Or, sorry, Frances Backs? I’m calling from the office of Dr. Leslie Miles, nutritionist. I have an appointment for you tomorrow, Thursday, at nine
A.M.
If we don’t hear back from you in the next hour, or if for any reason you have to reschedule, you’ll unfortunately be placed back on the wait list. The wait list is currently fifty-two months long. Thank you
.

BEEEP

Hi, Franny, it’s Gina from the Brill Agency. Wondering if—do you have any problems with feminine hygiene? As a product, I mean. And also—can you ride a horse? They need someone who can ride a horse on the beach. Or on a mountain or something. Anyway, let me know!

BEEEP

Franny! It’s Katie. We’re all here (Hi, Franny!). Shush, you guys. You’re so awesome on the show! That laugh! We’re just at the first commercial break, but wow. Great job. This is so exciting!

BEEEP

Franny, it’s Casey. I’m watching you! And leaving you a message! At the same time! You’re so funny. And seriously, those jeans make you look tiny, are you like a twenty-seven now? Are you still doing that TastiLife thing?

BEEEP

Dude, it’s Deena. You stole the show. They’re fucking nuts if they don’t bring you back. The last time that show was this funny was the late eighties. Although I’m not sure how they can keep pretending Kathy is in her thirties. Also, I’m working on
Law and Order
next week. Can you believe it? Drinks on me
.

BEEEP

Hello, hon, it’s your father. Mary and I watched the show tonight, at her apartment as requested, so that I was able to view you in this new invention they’ve come up with called color. Amazing how unnecessarily big these television screens are becoming. At any rate, I thought you seemed a very interesting character, although I wish they’d given you more lines, as you’re certainly deserving of some. Mary says I should also tell you that you looked very pretty, although I believe that goes without saying. At any rate, I’m—we’re both—very proud
.

BEEEP

Hello, uh
(clears throat),
this is Dan, uh, from downstairs? I just wanted to say that as funny as you were on the show last night, that still doesn’t justify you hogging most of my beer. I’m calling to invite you to dinner, perhaps at the upstairs Chinese place whose actual name no one can ever remember, to discuss the script I’m writing, which may or may not have been inspired by you. This is a formal business invitation only, with no strings attached, unless you should find at some point in the future that I belong in any of the odd geometric shapes your feelings sometimes take. Okay, see you soon. When you get home. To our apartment. Our apartment. That sounds kind of nice, don’t you think?